


The Cow Aficionado

by LittleWritingRabbit



Category: 18th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF, Historical RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Court Case, M/M, Previous character deaths
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-18
Updated: 2019-07-20
Packaged: 2019-11-23 15:39:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18153779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleWritingRabbit/pseuds/LittleWritingRabbit
Summary: Based onthis postby @adhd-ahamiltonAlexander Hamilton, a fast-talking New York City lawyer, is not at all excited about spending a month in the middle of nowhere, South Carolina. However, this court case might be his only way to stand up to British rule in the 21st century United Colonies of America, so he takes the case of one Henry Laurens, who is suing a British customs agent, and packs his bags. Little does he know, he's walking into a world of tragic family secrets, possible rebellions of various natures, and all the cows, bugs, and sunburns the South Carolina outdoors has to offer.





	1. Prologue (Perfect Ned McPerfect Stevens)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FallacyFallacy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FallacyFallacy/gifts).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So the home town's bringing you down,  
>  Are you drowning in the small talk and the chatter?  
>  Or you gonna step into line like your daddy done,  
>  Punching the time and climbing life's long ladder?  
>  Young man, full of big plans and thinking about tomorrow,  
>  Young man, going to make a stand,  
>  You beg, steal, you borrow.”  
>  \- [Beg Steal or Borrow](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O8_fGCCitEc) by Ray LaMontagne and the Pariah Dogs 

Alexander Hamilton was propped up against a pillow, whispering feverishly about epistemic awareness and injustice. Since no one else was home this evening, he had thought it might be fun to read Plato’s _Apology_ aloud. 

“The life which is unexamined is not worth living…” he said, and then whispered, “That’s very deep.” 

It was at that moment that the door burst open with a cry of “Alex!” and a lanky shape in a knitted cardigan barreled across the room and leapt onto his bed, shifting the springs and launching him from his comfortable position. 

“Ned!” he exclaimed, regarding his foster brother with surprise, “You’re ‘ome already?”

Ned Stevens’ head appeared from behind a pile of blankets, auburn-haired and grinning from ear to ear. He crawled up to give Alexander a hug, and then leaned back against the pillows in a tired sort of way. Until now, Alexander had assumed he was still flying home to St. Croix from university in New York and wouldn’t be back for hours. “My flight got here early,” Ned explained, “So I took the bus instead of waiting for a ride so I can surprise dad. When’s he getting home?”

“Ten-thirty I think?” said Alexander, “He’s ‘aving dinner with some customers so he’s going to be late anyways.”

“Oh good,” said Ned, “I think I’m going to make cupcakes and ice them with ‘NED WAS HERE’ and leave them on the table for him to find.” It was at this point that he noticed the copy of the _Apology_ resting on Alexander’s stomach. “Aw nice,” he said, “The original courtroom drama. How are you liking it?”

“It’s pretty cool,” said Alexander, “I think Socrates was a bit cocky, but like, in a good way, you know?”

“Are you reading it for class?” asked Ned. 

“Nope,” said Alexander, “Just for fun. I _wish_ we’d read classics in class but there’s been nothing older than 1900 yet.”

“How is school anyways?” Ned asked. Alexander got the sense that he was trying to sound casual. 

“Oh, y’know,” Alexander flicked through the pages like a flip-book, watching the sentences blur past. “Everything’s easy enough that I do okay without the ‘omework, but dull enough that I get teachers acting all concerned and beating around the bush about my ‘family situation,’ whatever that’s supposed to mean, because I don’t look engaged enough. How’s university?”

“I’ve actually never been more fascinated,” said Ned, “But hold up a second. You’re not doing your homework?”

“I understand everything well enough without it,” said Alexander, maybe a little defensive.

“Still,” said Ned, not finishing his thought.

“Still,” Alexander repeated, if only to prove that he was still listening. 

“Is everything ok?” Ned asked quietly. 

“Seriously? You sound like my teachers,” scoffed Alexander. “Yeah, everything’s as ok as it’s gonna get. Between overthinking and school and not getting anywhere at Beekman and Cruger I just feel kinda… stuck, that’s all. You know? No, you don’t know. That’s ok. We can’t all be Perfect Ned McPerfect Stevens.”

“’scuse me?” Ned almost laughed, “Since when have I been Perfect Ned McPerfect Stevens?”

“Since… I dunno, always?” Alexander shrugged, “You should ‘ear how they’ve been raving about you since September at least. ‘You know I heard Ned Stevens got a scholarship to Columbia’ and ‘did you hear Ned Stevens is studying medicine?’ and ‘I’ll bet he’ll come back and be the best doctor in Nevis!’ That sort of thing.”

“Aw man,” said Ned, “I’m really flattered, but also… I’m really glad you never saw me when I was your age. Grade 11 Ned was an absolute mess compared to University Ned.”

“I doubt that,” said Alexander. 

“No, it’s true!” said Ned. “Up until that year I always thought I was going to be just like dad - go into business, take over the trading firm, get married and take in a couple of adorable foster kids-”

“Hey!”

“-but that year I realized just how much I _hated_ business. I don’t know if you guys still have that grade 11 business studies class, but I took it for the first term.”

“I think the teacher got pregnant and they couldn’t find anyone else to do it so it’s postponed ‘till further notice,” Alexander supplied.

“Ah ok. That was the class I took though, and I found out right then how much I hated the subject, and I had an absolute crisis because who was going to take over dad’s firm if not me? What do you even study if you’re an awkward sort of kid who likes books and has big opinions about biology?”

“You’d think that would be an easy one to figure out…” Alexander said.

“Well, it took me long enough, but I switched to some chemistry classes and some biology ones and had a long talk with dad in which he tried not to laugh that I had worked myself up so much over wanting to be the perfect kid and follow in his footsteps and all that. Where was I going with this? Right - Perfect Ned McPerfect Stevens. I guess I might just have to ask what classes you’re taking next term.”

“Um… I think its chem, math, English and French?” Alexander said. 

“And you’ve had no interest in chemistry so far?”

“Well, no, but it’s a prerequisite for med school-”

“But you’ve had no interest in it so far?”

“No.”

“And you’re lamenting the fact that you can’t read courtroom dramas from Ancient Greece in your classes?”

“Well,” Alexander put on a smug expression, “Doesn’t everyone?”

“Alex,” said Ned, “Have you ever considered studying law?”

Alexander stayed quiet a moment. “I mean,” he said, “It sounds fun, but I think everyone expects me to be a doctor, y’know… like you.”

“Alex!” Ned said again with a laugh, shoving Alexander’s shoulder a bit, “You don’t have to be like me. You don’t have to be like your brother, or your mum, or my dad, or Mr. Knox, or anyone! It’s not all laid out like that, and if it was, it would probably be miserable!”

Alexander looked down at his book. He imagined Socrates standing tall and talking down the Athenian council. Then he imagined what might have happened if Socrates had had a _really_ good defense lawyer. “Holy _crap_ Ned,” he said, “I think I know what I want to go into in university.”

“Oh good!” said Ned, giving him another hug for good measure. “Now, do you want to help me with the cupcakes?”

“Nah, I think I’ll finish this first,” Alexander held up the _Apology_. “Save one for me though!”

“Of course,” said Ned, rolling off the bed and to his feet. “And when you’re done, we can play some more _Windigo II_. Have you got very far in the storyline without me?”

“I don’t play it when you’re not here,” said Alexander, “It’s better as a two-person game anyways.”

“You really are the best,” said Ned, heading towards the door. “See you in a bit, future lawyer Alexander Hamilton.” He closed the door behind him and headed back down the stairs. 

_Future Lawyer Alexander Hamilton._ That sounded nice. Nicer than _Doctor Alexander Hamilton_ , and much nicer than _Clerk Alexander Hamilton_ , or _Forster Kid In The Attic Bedroom Alexander Hamilton _.__

____

Alexander took the pencil he had been annotating with and wrote on the calendar beside his bed ‘change next term schedule’ before rolling back over and opening the book again. He had a trial to finish. 

____


	2. To Mepkin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
> “I’ve been waiting an hour and the bus hasn’t come,  
> I’ve been cursing - my god! - for the lack of the sun,  
> I’ve been ruined by destiny, lowered by fate,  
> And the upshot of this is, I’m going to be late, to be late.”  
> \- [Shore to Shore](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B7LW-hPfm74) by Johnny Flynn  
> 

It had no business being this hot, even in South Carolina. Alexander Hamilton sat upright again, freeing his back from the heat pressed between his suit jacket and the taxi seat, and stuck a finger under his collar, hoping to let in some air. Nothing happened. The taxi seemed a hot soup of evenly-boiling air, punctuated only by the driver’s off-tune humming and the history podcast playing through Alexander’s earbuds. 

He’d downloaded it before leaving New York at some ungodly hour of night when those cheap flights leave the airport that are guaranteed to make you slightly discombobulated for at least a week. It was the sixth podcast Alexander had downloaded since February on the subject of the Near Revolution of 1776, a subject that fascinated him. 

It wasn’t just the ideologies of the time, which were fascinating in their own right, but what _could_ have happened, that made Alexander obsess over that particular historical period. An army had been assembling, the Patriots had called a Continental Congress… there had been so much raw potential to create a new nation without the rule of the monarchy, had the Revolution not been crushed in its infancy and its leaders punished severely. The Brits had cracked down on all their other colonies as well, and the effects still lingered. But the Revolution could have been so much. A democracy, he mused to himself, with a strong central government, not beggared by taxes and reparations, not grumbling every second generation about how they should really push for reforms their rulers would never give them, but proud and independent. 

Or perhaps that was just the lawyer in him talking, he reasoned, sitting up again. God it was hot. At least now he had a chance to fight back a little, what with this case. 

The case in question was that of one Mr. Henry Laurens, the owner of several important agricultural companies which sent a lot of food back to England. Amidst all the current political turmoil, Mr. Laurens had decided it was a good idea to press charges accusing a British tariff officer of corruption, and was rich enough that nobody could say ‘no’ directly. It was creating somewhat of a stir in the press, as far as Alexander had been able to see from the newspapers in the Charleston airport before he’d rushed to the taxi. For some reason Henry Laurens had also decided it was a good idea to hire a young upstart lawyer from New York who had a habit of taking cases which seemed ridiculous to everyone else, which was where Alexander came into the equation. 

So here he was, overheating in an el cheapo sort of taxi, speeding down the highway from Charleston to Mepkin on his way to meet his Very Wealthy Client. Perhaps it hadn’t been the best idea to wear a suit in this sort of weather, but that wasn’t something he was in a position to change now, so he closed his eyes and tried to disappear into the world of his podcast. _Had I been there at the time of the Near Revolution of 1776,_ he thought to himself, _I would have made the Brits pay for every unjust law they passed against us._

The car made a coughing noise, which startled him out of his daydream. He pulled out an earbud, raising the little window between him and the driver, who was still tunelessly humming. “Is everything alright up there?” he inquired. 

“Don’t you worry,” drawled the driver with a smile that was mostly reassuring, “She does that all the time! I’ll get ya there all safe and sound!”

Not entirely convinced, Alexander sat back again, relishing the shade that the trees were finally casting across the road. It had been really kind of Mr. Laurens to offer him a guest-room at his house while he worked on the case, as he had hardly been looking forward to paying for a hotel the entire time. Alexander wasn’t quite the sort of lawyer with an upscale bachelor’s pad on the top floor like you saw in the TV shows. He was more the sort of lawyer that was still roommates with Herc Mulligan and had actually had to go shopping for socks that didn’t have holes in them so that he wouldn’t embarrass himself living with the Laurenses for a month. That sort of lawyer. 

The car spluttered again, and the driver frowned, but continued driving. More trees flashed by the window. Damn, the city petered out fast, Alexander thought. He liked cities with a little more resilience, thank you very much. New York seemed immovable, like the world could change all it liked, but those particular towers would always be there, forever trying to outshine the sky. 

They crossed the bridge over a river, and continued on through a thicker forest. The podcast played a tinny sea-chanty for the interlude, which made Alexander smile. Herc hated it when he played tinny sea-chanties at full volume. 

It was at that moment that the taxi gave one last gasp, screeched a little, and skidded to a halt on the side of the road. The driver slapped the wheel and said some things that were muffled by the partition, but Alexander could tell they weren’t complimentary. 

Alexander dragged his briefcase, backpack, and suitcase out after him like civilians from a shipwreck. “What do we do now?” he demanded. 

“Sorry bucko,” said the driver, “I’ve gotta call for a tow, looks like she’s not goin’ anywhere for a few days.”

“A few days?!” Alexander exclaimed. He had no concept of how large this forest was. It might have gone on and on forever, containing who knows what, and how exactly was he supposed to get to Mepkin before dinner without a taxi? “What do you mean ‘a few days’?” 

The driver shrugged, like he’d seen it all and an overheating lawyer with a second-hand briefcase stranded in a forest was nothing new. “I’ll have to hav’er towed and fixed up. Not much we can do about it now.”

Alexander would have thrown his hands up in despair, but they were currently supporting several very heavy bags. “How far is it? To Mepkin, that is?”

“’bout… uh… fifteen miles? You gonna hike it?” the diver sized him up like he was unsure he could make it that far. That galvanized Alexander. There would be no honour in calling another taxi now. “Yes, shouldn’t be a problem,” he said, slinging his backpack over his shoulders and sinking about an inch forward. He’d forgotten the volume of books he’d packed. “Thank you very much sir, um, how much shall I pay you?” He handed over the few bills and picked up his briefcase in one hand, balancing the wheely suitcase in the other. “Have a good day sir,” he nodded, and set off down the side of the highway. 

It had no business being this hot in the shade. Alexander sweated under the layers of his suit, feeling his back get sticky first under the backpack, then his hands as he tried to get a grip of the briefcase and suitcase, and then the back of his neck. He should have gotten a haircut before leaving New York, but he liked the ruffling possibilities that slightly longer curls provided, so now he was left to push the auburn mop off his forehead and trudge on. 

The farther he walked down the highway, the more mosquitoes there seemed to be, until he had slapped himself pink trying to hit them and was itchy all over. He wondered how many miles there were left. Suppose the road split in two different directions, like that Robert Frost poem? What was he to do then? 

Alexander was so caught up in his plight that he almost didn’t notice the man standing to the edge of the road up ahead. He squinted at him. The man appeared to be… feeding a cow? Alexander straightened up a bit and continued forwards. Yes, the man was feeding a cow, and patting its neck, and muttering something under his breath. _Great,_ thought Alexander, _I’m going to ask directions from a cow-whisperer, as if this day couldn’t possibly get any stranger._

As he got closer, Alexander could tell that this wasn’t even an ordinary cow-whisperer, no, he just had to be confronted with a really good looking cow-whisperer. The man’s hair was longer even than his own, a sort of honeyed brown, and he had a jaw you could probably chop wood with. Now that was a funny image. If even some of the boys in New York were as good looking as this farmer from the Armpit of Nowhere, Alexander would be a much happier man, he decided. 

“Who’s a good girl,” said the man to the cow, not even noticing Alexander in all his exhausted, suit-wearing glory. Alexander cleared his throat. “You,” smiled the man, “You’re the good girl!”

“Excuse me,” said Alexander.

“Wh- oh!” the man pulled out his earbuds and Alexander could hear the twangy music playing in them from where he stood on the road. “Yeah, what can I do you for?” the man asked, a little sheepish.

“Not much,” Alexander tried to sound reassuring, “I’m just wondering how far it is to Mepkin? You… know where that is, yes?”

The man looked a little taken aback, but came to his senses quickly enough. “Yeah I sure do, I-”

“Perfect,” Alexander said, before the cow-whisperer could launch into whatever story seemed to be brewing in his head. “I just need directions,” he enunciated a little, just to be safe. 

The man blinked in surprise, then replied. “Just head up the highway for a few minutes, you should see this big driveway lined with oak trees. Up that driveway and around the corner,” he smiled, “What did you say your name was?”

“I didn’t,” said Alexander, hitching the suitcase a little higher in his hand. When he realized the man was still expecting an answer he said, “Alexander Hamilton.”

“Alexander Hamilton,” the man repeated, accenting the ‘A’ slightly. 

“Yes, thank you, I’m off,” said Alexander, turning tail and leaving the good-looking cow-whisperer in the forest. _Well that was surreal,_ he thought. He shook his head. Where he was going, he was going to be dealing with businessmen, not farmers, which was more his element in any case. 

Just as the man had said, Alexander found the driveway a few minutes down the road. Two long, stately rows of ancient oak trees bordered the path, stretching through pristine lawns towards the main house, an equally ancient construction that was probably older than the Near Revolution of 1776. Alexander sighed with relief, took a moment to attempt to clean himself up with his sleeve, ran a hand through his hair, and set off down the driveway. 

_Bring on your best defense, England,_ he thought, _Alexander Hamilton has arrived in Mepkin and he’s not leaving until he wins this case._


	3. Introductions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
> “Sheets are swaying from an old clothesline,  
> Like a row of captured ghosts, over old dead grass,  
> Was never much but we made the most.  
> Welcome home!”  
> \- [Welcome Home, Son](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P8a4iiOnzsc) by Radical Face  
> 

Alexander shrugged his backpack higher on his shoulders and walked up the drive past the towering oak trees that dripped moss like molasses which swayed in the wind. Mepkin itself was an impressive property, but the house that Alexander walked towards was the thing that really awed him. It was less of a house, and more of a colonial mansion when one got this close; three stories of creamy yellow walls and white trim, bordered by several positively ancient trees. Two staircases (because apparently one wasn’t enough) curved up to the front porch where a set of big double doors welcomed any visitors like the entrance to a castle. 

Alexander climbed the steps, his suitcase smacking loudly against the stone. He brushed back his hair, set down his briefcase, and knocked on the painted wood. The sound echoed around inside the house. A moment later, footsteps approached the other side of the door, and a lock clicked.

“Hello!” said the man with dark curls who had opened the door, smiling pleasantly. “You must be Mr. Hamilton - welcome to Mepkin!”

“Thank you very much,” Alexander collected his briefcase and stepped inside, wobbling a little as he attempted to pry one shoe off with the other. 

“Not to worry, you can keep your shoes on if you like,” said the man. “Can I take that?”

“If you don’t mind, thank you,” Alexander handed over his suitcase, which the man rolled over to beside the stairs. 

“I’ll ask Mina to bring it up to your room for you,” he said. “I’m Christopher Shrewsberry by the way, Mr. Laurens’s long-suffering secretary. Don’t worry, he knows that’s my title.”

“Long-suffering hey?” Alexander smiled as Shrewsberry led him up another set of dark wooden stairs to a corridor that ran along the second floor of the house. 

“Yep, overdressed and under-vacationed, you know the drill,” said Shrewsberry. It was true, he was wearing a navy blue suit and a purple dress-shirt. He also had the strained expression of someone who had been reading paperwork all morning.

“Do I ever,” said Alexander with a sympathetic grimace. “You know what Mr. Shrewsberry? I think we’re going to get along just fine.”

“Well that’s a relief,” said Shrewsberry. “You know in the movies when a big-city lawyer travels to the country and is all pompous and afraid of nature? I’ve always thought that was a ridiculous plot.” 

Alexander nodded, but said nothing. It wasn’t that he _didn’t_ enjoy nature, per se, but he felt he had had his fair share of it on his walk here, and that was enough for about another week. At least the house didn’t seem as rustic as he might have feared. Everything was immaculately dusted, though most of the furniture looked like it had come from the Victorian era or sometime before. Portraits of stern gentlemen and wise ladies stared down at him from the walls; probably the Laurens ancestors. Alexander wondered what it would be like to live in a place so tied to one’s family. Places like that tended to evade him. 

“Here we are,” said Shrewsberry, leading him to a door at the end of the hallway. He knocked quietly.

“Come in!” said a voice, muffled through the wood. 

Alexander held open the door and followed Shrewsberry into the most modern room he had seen so far in this house. Henry Laurens’s office was decorated sparsely, with pale grey walls and dark wooden cabinets that somehow operated without handles. The carpet had a geometric pattern in shades of navy blue and coffee, and some sort of modern art sculpture like a two-dimensional cityscape in dark blue metal decorated the bookshelf. The only vintage piece in the whole office was the desk, which was imposingly tall and ornately carved, which was where Mr. Henry Laurens himself was seated. 

“Ah, welcome to Mepkin, Mr. Hamilton,” he said, half-standing in his seat and offering a very firm handshake over the desk. He was the picture of the old-fashioned businessman, composed and formal, rotund enough to signify success, and all the more dignified for being grey-haired. He struck Alexander as the type of man who had probably played sports in his youth, and probably still bragged about it over rounds of golf.

“Thank you very much sir,” said Alexander, “It’s a pleasure to finally meet in person.”

“Indeed,” Laurens sat back down, “Good to see you Shrewsberry. Have a seat, both of you.” They sat, as directed, in chairs opposite Laurens’s desk. “Now, I’m sure you’re well aware of the general subject of our court case, Mr. Hamilton, but I’d like to meet with you further once you’re all settled in.”

“Of course sir,” said Alexander, one hand already on his briefcase, “I’ve done some research myself in fact - about the judge and the Trade and Navigation Acts and their history in South Carolina especially - and I think I have some ideas for the sort of case we could make.”

“Fantastic,” said Laurens with a nod. “I can see you’re very keen to help, Mr. Hamilton, already living up to your reputation.”

“A _good_ reputation, I hope?” Alexander smiled.

“I’d say so,” said Laurens. “I don’t want to trouble you before you’re ready though, so I thought you could get settled in and then my son John could give you a little tour of Mepkin, nothing formal of course, but-”

A knock sounded at the door. 

“Ah, speak of the devil,” said Laurens, “Come in!” Alexander heard the door close behind him. He started to stand to greet the newcomer. “Mr. Hamilton, I’d like you to meet my eldest son, John …” Henry Laurens was saying, and then he possibly said something else, but Alexander never heard it, as he recognized who had just walked in the door. 

It was none other than the good-looking cow-aficionado from the forest. 

Alexander’s breath caught in his throat. He tried to keep his expression neutral, but he was probably just staring in dumb shock for a moment or two as his mind tried to reconcile the abstract, ironic, comedy movie his life seemed to be turning into. He kind of wanted to swear, but all his instincts of self-preservation told him that would be unprofessional, so instead he made his expression as pleasant as possible and extended his hand. 

“Pleased to meet you,” he said.

For a brief moment, it seemed as if John was going to object (his eyebrow was dangerously quirked), but then he smiled back and shook Alexander’s hand. “Pleased to meet you too Mr. Hamilton,” he said, “And welcome to Mepkin. I hope it won’t be too rustic compared to the big city you must be used to.”

“Oh nonsense,” said Henry Laurens, completely oblivious, “I’m certain we can make Mr. Hamilton feel quite at home here.”

"Thank you very much for all your hospitality sir,” said Alexander, “It’s very kind of you.” He tried not to look at John, who had put on a dressier plaid shirt and pulled his hair back into a sort of knot since he left the forest. Unfortunately he was still quite good-looking. 

“It’s the least I could do,” said Laurens, “After all, I really couldn’t survive this case without a lawyer. Now, if John had finished his degree, I might’ve just gotten him to do the job, but you can’t have it all, like they say.” John visibly clenched his teeth, but said nothing. “Anyways,” Laurens stood, prompting Alexander and Shrewsberry to stand as well, “I shouldn’t keep you. I’ll see you for dinner, Mr. Hamilton.”

“See you for dinner Mr. Laurens,” Alexander nodded, “And, uh, Mr. Laurens,” he nodded at John. “Thank you again.” He followed Shrewsberry out of the office, and stopped to close the door. From the other side, he could hear Henry begin to comment on his son’s hair: _it looks hooligan-like, John, I really don’t know why you won’t cut it._

“Everything you expected?” Shrewsberry asked with a smile over his shoulder. They climbed another flight of stairs. 

“Very much so,” said Alexander. “He’s exactly like his emails.”

Shrewsberry laughed as they reached the door on one end of the hall. “I really can’t tell if that’s a compliment or not,” he said. 

Alexander shrugged and slipped off his backpack as he entered the room. It was a tidy little place with a window overlooking the back garden, another ancient-looking desk, and a map of the world on the wall. Someone had already brought his suitcase up and placed it beside his bed. 

“Well, I’m off,” said Shrewsberry, “There’s people in Georgia to contact, reports to write, and it’s my turn to pick Willow up from school in approximately…” he checked his watch, “…two and a half hours.”

“Willow?” Alexander asked. Was there another Laurens sibling he had yet to meet?

“She’s my daughter,” said Shrewsberry in explanation. “Nice to meet you Mr. Hamilton!”

“You too Mr. Shrewsberry.” The door clicked shut behind him.

Once he was sure he was well and truly alone, Alexander collapsed onto the bed, whispering a few choice words into the duvet. _I have screwed up,_ he thought, _I have screwed up so, so badly._ It was such a mess it was almost comical. He’d treated the man in the forest like a complete idiot… his client’s son. There was literally nothing stopping John from describing the incident to his father, and then it was anyone’s guess what Henry Laurens would do. For now, however, John seemed content to just hold it over Alexander’s head, which was debatably worse. 

Alexander’s mind provided no immediate solutions to the problem, other than that nothing could be solved by lying there all day, so he stood up and changed out of the dress shirt and blazer which had started to smell from his trek through the woods. He put on another dress shirt with blue pinstripes and inspected his appearance in the mirror. “You look like a professor,” he muttered at his reflection, and rolled up the sleeves. 

Beside the door, a map of the world was pinned over the wallpaper. It was done in an old style, but Alexander was fairly sure it was a new map, as it was in such good condition. His eyes traced the familiar countries, Canada bordering the United Colonies of America, which in turn bordered Louisiana, which bordered Mexico, with the Allied Indigenous Nations stretching across the middle of the continent. For some reason this steeled his nerves. No matter the personal aspects of this case, the most important thing was that they were standing up against the corruption of British agents, which had plagued America ever since there was an America to plague. This was bigger than his new cow-whispering acquaintance, bigger than Mepkin, bigger even than a court case ought to be. It was a state putting its foot down, a rattlesnake finally forgoing the warning and taking a bite. 

Someone knocked on the door to Alexander’s room. 

“I’m supposed to give you a tour… when you have a minute,” said John from the hallway. 

Alexander sighed quietly and gave the map one last look. This was going to be one long month. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! If you want an approximation of the map in this chapter, I sketched one out [here](https://littlewritingrabbit.tumblr.com/post/178505680774/in-case-anyone-was-wondering-this-is-what-north) just in case :)


	4. Nobody Seems to Mention Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
> “Now I’ve gone crazy, couldn’t you tell?  
> I threw stones at the stars but the whole sky fell.”  
> \- [The Stable Song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xaX0wjoImH8) by Gregory Alan Isakov  
> 

Alexander mustered the most professional expression he had and opened the door. John Laurens took a step back from where he had been standing close to the doorframe, and nodded, unsmiling. A few strands of hair had missed being tied up and were hanging loose around his face, framing a pair of icy blue eyes. Alexander nodded in return. 

“Thank you for showing me around,” he said, closing the door behind him and following John down the hallway, “From what I saw walking up the driveway, it’s a beautiful property you have here.”

“It is quite nice in the summer,” said John, “If one can survive the mosquitoes, that is.”

So John had noticed the red bug-bites hiding among the freckles on his arms. “I hope I’ll be able to,” Alexander said with a professional chuckle. Ahead of him, John nodded professionally. The sleeves of his blue plaid shirt were rolled up to the elbows and his arms were nicely suntanned, not that Alexander cared or anything. 

“So this hallway has most of the bedrooms on it,” said John, gesturing to either side. Between cream-wallpapered walls that seemed slightly reflective at the right angles, Alexander could read nametags on several doors of “John,” “Mary-Eleanor,” and “Martha,” leaving him to conclude that there must be even more Laurens siblings hiding away in the endless halls of this post-plantation mansion. “The washroom on this floor is by the stairs and - oh, hello Harry.”

A curious face withdrew into the room beside the bathroom, causing the sign reading “Henry Jr.’s Room” to swing back against the door with a clack. “Harry,” John called out, “Are you going to come say hello?”

Harry reappeared once more, a small blond-haired boy with marker-covered hands. “Hullo,” he said quietly, looking up at Alexander. “I’m Harry, nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you too,” Alexander replied, “I’m Alexander.”

“Oh,” said Harry, a little confused, “Father said to call you Mister Hamilton.”

 _Father?_ “Either one is good,” said Alexander, “You can call me whatever you like, as long as it isn’t ‘Carrots,’” he pointed to his hair. 

Harry snickered and pulled the door of his room closed behind him. “We’re going downstairs now,” John told him, “Care to lead the way?”

“Okay, follow me,” Harry made his way down the stairs, oblivious of the tension between those following him. Alexander slowed on the stairs to inspect a painting on the wall beside them. Henry Laurens sat in the middle, along with someone who Alexander assumed was his wife, a younger John and Harry, a little girl and boy, and a baby. He wondered at the figures he didn’t know, and why nobody seemed to mention family in this house. Then - “Come on slowpokes!” Harry yelled from downstairs, and he hurried to catch up. 

“Father’s room is down that hall,” John pointed to the right, “Guest rooms down here,” down a hallway, “This is the fainting room,” a door down the next hall.

“Wait, _fainting_ room?” Alexander interrupted, “Who’s fainting?” 

“Well, no one now,” said John, “But I assume people were fainting more in the Victorian Era. It’s still got the couch though, if you feel a bit dizzy.” Alexander laughed professionally again. Harry looked back and pretended to faint dramatically into a wall.

“That was a nursery, but we took out the creepy rocking horse and cradle and made it into a playroom when we were kids,” John pointed to a corner room as they turned towards where the main staircase met the second floor. “Here’s another bathroom.”

“Anything I ought to know about this room?” Alexander gestured to a room beside the playroom that John seemed to be ignoring.

“No,” said John, and continued to the balcony above the foyer. Alexander restrained himself from making an affronted face. “You saw this hallways earlier,” said John, walking past the hallway where his father’s office was located. “All it has is Father’s office, Mr. Shrewsberry’s office, and the office of whichever intern happens to be here at the moment.” They turned back around towards the second floor stairs. “Another washroom. The family room. The music room is behind the second floor stairs. Do you play any instruments Mr. Hamilton?”

“Sadly no,” said Alexander, “But if anyone wants to play I would happily be an audience.”

“Kind of you,” said John curtly. “Beside the linens closet here is another staircase-” Harry was already thumping down the stairs with gusto, so they followed, “-which leads down behind the coat room.”

“The kitchen has a dumbwaiter,” Harry piped up, pointing into a kitchen that stretched all the way to a shaded porch. It looked large enough to do sprint races in at least. 

“That’s a little rude Harry,” said Alexander with a grin, “Everyone is smart in their own way.”

It took Harry a moment. “No!” he giggled, “I mean a _dumbwaiter_ , not a _dumb waiter_!”

“We’ll have meals in the kitchen when there are no other houseguests,” said John, leaving Alexander a little taken aback at the formality of _houseguests_. “Beside the kitchen is the den,” John continued. 

“They share a fireplace,” said Harry wisely.

“Another bathroom,” John pointed to the right, “And this is the dining room.”

They passed the threshold into a large room with strikingly antique wallpaper. Sprawled across the walls were tiny scenes of gardens and cottages and lords and ladies in a deep maroon. A long table that could likely fit twenty guests stretched down the centre of the room atop a gigantic Persian rug. 

“The sunroom is just through those sliding doors,” said John, “I suppose that one takes the award for the most houseplants in any room here.” They didn’t proceed towards the sunroom however, but through the set of doors at the opposite side of the room which led into a grand living room, which probably still had the same decorations as it had when General George Washington was executed in the late 1700s.

“This is really beautiful,” said Alexander, “You’ve done a wonderful job of this whole place.”

“Thank you,” said John politely. “We’re lucky to have most of the original furniture - a lot of the other plantation houses from the same era went into disrepair after the Near Revolution because they supported the rebels and had their properties confiscated, but Mepkin was pretty well preserved.”

“So the original owners were Loyalists?” Alexander asked, staring up at a picture of some 18th Century gentleman with the exact same nose as John. It was a little unnerving.

“We’re actually not sure,” said John, “A lot of the letters of the time were lost so we don’t know exactly which side they were on.”

“Interesting,” said Alexander. As much as he wanted to talk more about the subject, John didn’t seem to want to be particularly conversational, which would make sense given how Alexander had spoken in the forest earlier. They walked back through the foyer in silence. 

“This is the library,” said John, walking through the next door, and Alexander’s jaw dropped. 

The library was two storeys of bookshelves with sun streaming in from the grounds outside. Houseplants and soft armchairs were scattered around, looking warm and comfortable in the soft light. The books themselves were not even all English, and several of them looked to be over a hundred years old. There were books on science, books on economics, books on law, and history, and romance, and travel, and that was only what Alexander could see from where he stood in the doorway. 

“Look!” said Harry, “Look how tall this ladder is!” He slid sideways across a shelf on a rolling ladder, as if that was the most interesting feature of the room. 

“This is _amazing_ ,” Alexander whispered, forgetting that he had to be professional for a moment in the face of all these books. He didn’t look over at John, knowing that his face was probably as smug as a face could get. 

“Oh and you HAVE to see the basement!” said Harry, heading for the door.

“I don’t think we have time Harry,” said John, “You can show Mr. Hamilton the basement another time, but we have to see outside before dinner.”

“Awww,” said Harry, scooting the ladder in the other direction. 

They made their way out the front doors and down the path to the left, where another slightly smaller (but no less ornate) house rested. “This house is mostly storage right now,” said John, squinting up at where the sun was reflecting blankly off its window. “But I think Father wants to renovate it when one of us gets married.” He promptly turned and walked away from it, leaving Alexander to the conclusion that he was not on board with that plan. “This is our groundskeeper, Mr. Martinez’s place,” John said, gesturing to a cottage that was almost entirely hidden on one side by a garden full of flowerbeds and climbing vines. “I would introduce you, but I think he’s out somewhere.”

“Is that… a well?” Alexander asked, on their way back across the lawn. 

“Yup,” said Harry.

“Does it still work?” 

“Yup,” said Harry. “The water that comes out is really cold… Martha poured some on me one time.”

“Oh man,” said Alexander in sympathy. They walked back beneath the old oak trees and around the other side of the house. On the way to the garden behind the back porch, a voice called, seemingly from the heavens.

“Hey John! I’m stealing your green plaid!”

Alexander looked around him in confusion for a moment before looking up to a third-floor window, where someone’s face was looking out. The damsel in this particular tower was wearing a black tank-top and waving the green plaid shirt in question out the window like a flag. 

“Really?” John called up in exasperation. 

“Yeah, it’s nice,” said the girl. “Wait, are you the lawyer?”

“Me?” Alexander asked.

“Yeah you!”

“I am the lawyer! Alexander Hamilton! Nice to meet you!”

“Nice to meet you too!” called the girl, “I’m Martha! Has John showed you the ATVs yet?”

“Um, no, not yet?” 

“Oh c’mon John!” said Martha. “Ok, I’m coming down just to show them to you - I’ll meet you in the barn.” Her face disappeared from the window and an arm shot out and closed it behind her.

They returned to the house about an hour later after having seen the main barn where there were several real, live, snuffling and whinnying horses, as well as at least three ATVs. Martha had rolled one out the double doors and revved up the engine for a demonstration, and then raced around the yard so fast she became a blur. She offered Alexander a ride on the back, which he mistakenly accepted, and the adrenaline was just wearing off as they arrived in the kitchen for dinner. He patted down his hair, which was standing on end, before sitting down at the table. 

Henry Laurens arrived a moment later with a little girl in tow, her hair in two braids. Seating himself at the head of the table, Henry unfolded a napkin onto his lap and said cheerfully, “Say hello to Mr. Hamilton, Mary-Eleanor.”

She looked down at her plate and waved at Alexander. He waved back, though this didn’t seem enough for Henry, as he cleared his throat and gave her a poignant look. “Mary-Eleanor?”

“Hullo Mister Hamilton nice to meet you,” she mumbled. 

“Nice to meet you too,” said Alexander with a smile.

“Had a nice tour did you, Mr. Hamilton?” Henry inquired, as someone who Alexander assumed must be the cook brought out the dishes for dinner. Alexander restrained himself from staring at them in disbelief - they had actual silver dish-covers which the cook gathered up expertly, steam wafting up from the plates of cooked vegetables and fish underneath. 

“A very nice tour, thank you very much,” said Alexander, “Mepkin as a whole is absolutely beautiful.”

,p>“Oh now, you know flattery doesn’t work on me Mr. Hamilton,” chuckled Mr. Laurens with a smile. “But I am glad you think so. It’s not an easy place to keep up, but it’s a labour of love as they say.”

The cook returned with a basket of dinner rolls and a plate of butter. Alexander smiled at him, “Thanks very much, Mr…?”

“Wilkinson,” said the Cook, “But call me Isaac.”

“Pleased to meet you,” said Alexander, “I’m Alexander Hamilton.”

“He’s the rising star lawyer in New York, or so I hear,” said Henry.

“Now you’re the one resorting to flattery Mr. Laurens,” laughed Alexander, unfolding his napkin onto his lap. 

“Flattery? Never,” said Henry, evidently glad he had someone to play the business-banter game with. “Admiration perhaps, I mean, I had always hoped to have a lawyer at this table, I just always thought it would be John, didn’t I?” he chuckled in John’s direction. “As I said, you can’t have it all, and we’ll find a way to coax John back into law school yet I’m sure. Right John?”

“Of course Father,” John smiled in an obligated sort of way. 

“Care to say grace, John?”

“Of course.” The family folded their hands, Alexander following just a beat too late, as John said grace, thanking God for the food that was now smelling so delicious in the centre of the table. _Right_ , thought Alexander, _religion_. 

“Bon appétit,” said Henry, and they all tucked into the salad and vegetable and fish. 

Alexander was beginning to think that there were tensions going multiple ways at this dinner table. 

He met with Henry Laurens after dinner in his office, briefcase in hand, to discuss the case. The sun was setting towards the river that could be seen from the windows, and illuminating the various printed out sheets from Alexander’s colourful folders on the table. 

“So,” he said, back in his element at last, “Shall I get started on the judge, or the Trade and Navigation Acts, or our opposition…?”

“Tell me about the judge first,” said Henry, “I’d like your opinions on him if you don’t mind.”

“Alright,” said Alexander, selecting the yellow folder, “So the judge, as you know, is Mr. Egerton Leigh. He’s had his position, and several others, for quite a while now, and I’d call him about as well-established as they get in the business. Not to sound like a private investigator or anything, but his father was the Bailiff of Westminster and the Chief Justice of South Carolina, and Leigh junior is carrying on that legacy by being both the judge of the Vice-Admiralty Court, the Surveyor General of South Carolina, and the Attorney General. To be perfectly honest, he’s a bit of a placeman.”

“He’s also my nephew,” said Henry Laurens. 

Alexander sat in silence for a moment, heart pounding, cursing his mouth for everything it had said in the past twelve hours. Was he just going to insult every member of this family? Was that his plan? “Mr. Laurens, sir,” he said, “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean-”

Henry interrupted him with a laugh and clapped him on the shoulder. “It’s alright Mr. Hamilton, everything you just said is absolutely true. I don’t always see eye-to-eye with old Egerton, and I’m not petty, but I know when a man has had a hand up in the world, and he certainly has.”

“Still,” said Alexander with a grateful smile, “I should find out who people’s relatives are before calling them placemen. Anyways, Leigh’s had a long history in his positions, but there are some recent cases that are particularly interesting to you and me.”

“Oh do tell,” said Henry. 

“First of all,” said Alexander, pulling out a general write-up he had made and angling it so Henry could read it, “The case of the _Active_. The _Active_ was a cargo ship, not unlike yours, that was confiscated because it didn’t clear the restrictions of the Trade and Navigation Acts properly. Leigh, however, let it go, because he claimed the Acts weren’t supposed to be that strict on inter-colonial trade. Now, you can imagine how well that went over with the officers back in England, right? One of their own lets down his guard about the laws they’ve spent hundreds of years upholding… I don’t think that endeared Leigh to anyone across the ocean.”

“I’m certain it didn’t,” Henry agreed. 

“That’s likely why, the next time he was involved in a customs case, Leigh swung firmly in the other direction.” Alexander offered another write-up of a more recent case. “In this case, a customs agent from England, Daniel Moore, requested fees illegally from merchants in South Carolina, but Leigh acquitted him on a technicality. I assume he gave him a talking-to of some variety afterwards, but the fact still stands that all his legal action in that case favoured England. So that brings us to your case,” Hamilton straightened the print-outs of all Henry’s emails about the case into a neat pile. 

“Our case is fairly similar,” Henry agreed. “Two of my ships, both returning from transporting produce to Britain, were confiscated by a customs agent named George Roupell-”

“Working under Daniel Moore,” said Alexander, demonstrating a printed version of Roupell’s profile on the customs office website. “Sorry, continue.”

“That’s alright,” said Henry. “So they were both confiscated, as Roupell said they didn’t pass the specification of the Acts. But I saw them with my own eyes afterwards, and I can say that though the ballast tank in the _Broughton Island Packet_ wasn’t up to even my standards, the one in the _Wambaw_ was fine.”

“Interesting,” said Alexander. “That certainly sounds both well-planned and very illegal, but I guess we’ll hear the other side of the story tomorrow.”

“I suppose,” said Laurens. “I also ought to tell you that the ballast tank in the _Broughton Island Packet_ was damaged while they were prodding around to see if it was sailable. Someone stepped on a pipe and threw off the gas-monitoring system by breaking it, so I feel that should have some legal responsibility.”

“You’re absolutely right, and I think that’s going to be an important piece of our case actually,” Alexander hurried to write it down.

“And Leigh,” said Laurens, “His position in this is also something notable.”

“I noticed that too,” said Alexander. “Yes, he’s acting as a judge, because that is his job, but he also has the position of Attorney General, and because Roupell is a government officer, he has to act in defense of Roupell as well. I think it’s a classic case of - and again, I’m sorry to say this - but I think it’s a case of a British agent filling multiple positions because of their high regard across the ocean and the lack of people with enough education and experience to fill the positions on our end, which is, of course, directly linked to our economy being, as you know, rubbish, what with reparations and generally being a colony and all but…” Alexander sighed, “That’s a whole other story.”

“So it is,” said Henry. “But you said you had an idea about how to proceed?”

“I do,” said Alexander, trying not to sound cocky despite how well-researched he was, “If Leigh does what I think he plans to do, I think we should sue for the damages to the _Broughton Island Packet_.”

“And the Wambaw?” Laurens looked concerned. “That is the more sailable of the two, after all?”

“Yes,” said Hamilton, “But not the most strategic.” He looked down at his notes, wishing he’d been able to get a judge of Leigh’s character in person before this. “I’ll let you know properly after the case starts tomorrow, but I think you’ll have an easier time getting the _Broughton Island Packet_ back.”

Henry seemed to understand the uncertainty this early in the case. “I should let you get some sleep,” he said, rising to his feet. Outside the windows, darkness had fallen over the oak trees and swaying vines of Mepkin. “You’ve come a long way today.”

“Believe me Mr. Laurens,” said Alexander, “It’s no trouble. I’m just so grateful that you’ve offered me a room here.” He stood up as well, folding his papers back into the yellow folder. “Do you want to look over this, or should I hang onto it?” 

“If you’d hold it for now that would be perfect,” said Henry, tucking in his chair. Alexander did likewise. “Goodnight Mr. Hamilton.”

“Goodnight Mr. Laurens,” Alexander smiled, picked up his briefcase, and left his client’s office. He climbed the stairs quietly and got ready for bed. Before he let tiredness overcome him, he sent off a quick text.

**Hey Herc, I got here ok and I was right, the case is a weird one**  
**It seems like everyone’s related to everyone**  
**Nick will be over tomorrow to pick up some papers I’ve witnessed for him (hope that’s ok, he’ll be quick)**  
**Goodnight!**


	5. Morally Grey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
> *cheerful banjo solo*  
> \- [Good Land](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cvCI2HcgmxU) by Trampled by Turtles
> 
> I am forever indebted to @hycnithoides on Tumblr for telling me how court cases typically go, and how this one is more slim-shady than most. I am also apologetic for ignoring some important things about court cases, namely that they usually take about a year, and that there is no way Leigh could be both judge and Attorney General at the same time. One can chalk those up, if they so choose, to the weird corrupt court-system that exists in the United Colonies of America in this universe :) 

Alexander went on a run to clear his head the next morning, but only succeeded in slipping off the path when it got too close to the river and falling down the bank in a tangle of arms and legs and headphones. He returned covered in moss and mud, and hurried to have a shower and change before anyone saw him. He was just packing up his briefcase when someone knocked on the door. 

“Come in!” he said. If he was going to face John this early in the morning, he was going to do it in his own room, on his own terms. 

It was indeed John, wearing another plaid shirt, this time under a sharply-tailored navy blue blazer, with a tie. “Good morning,” he said, “Father wanted me to tell you that we’re planning to leave in fifteen minutes.”

“Perfect,” said Alexander, slipping his laptop into his briefcase. He sat down on one side of the bed to reach across to the other and unplug the charger. “I’m nearly ready, I just need to-”

John’s eyes widened. “What are you wearing?” he demanded.

Alexander looked down at himself. “A… suit?” he suggested. “I mean, I know tweed it is a bit of a bold statement to start off with, but I think-”

“No, not that, I mean your _socks_ ,” said John.

“Oh,” said Alexander. The socks in question were striped in pink, purple, and blue. He had bought them from one of those online stores run by gay knitting enthusiasts, but he was fairly certain John wouldn’t be interested to hear that. Based on the terrified look on John’s face, however, Alexander reasoned that while he knew precisely what the socks meant, he didn’t seem likely to go running to his father with this particular news. “Well,” he said, “No time like the present to come out I suppose. I’m bisexual, hence the socks.”

“I’m not- I mean, it’s fine, I don’t mind - I mean, that’s not my concern,” said John, “But you are not wearing those in front of my father!”

“I don’t mean to be rude at all,” said Alexander, “But are you sure he’ll actually know what they stand for? I mean, I’ve worn these socks in front of several very… uh, traditional judges, and they’ve never had a clue, but if you think he might be harsh about it-”

“Well I don’t want you risking it!” said John, in what was probably the most exasperated act of concern the world had ever seen. 

“Fine!” said Alexander. He was vaguely aware that he should be thankful someone had warned him, but more than that, the fact that John had yet another piece of information to hold over his head made his ears burn. He certainly wasn’t ashamed of his sexuality or his socks, and he was out to all the important people (Herc, Elizabeth, Ned, Rob, Nick, and Kitty, namely,) but he didn’t particularly like giving out personal trivia to the sons of his clients, especially when they had cause to use it against him. 

“John?” Henry Laurens’ voice travelled up the stairs and John sighed. “John, come help me find the antique cufflinks!”

John walked to the door, turned back as if he wanted to say something, and then seemed to think better of it. He closed the door quietly behind him. 

Alexander changed his socks to a grey argyle pair and straightened his tie in the mirror. He collected his briefcase and made his way down the stairs to where Henry Laurens was waiting in the foyer. “Good morning sir,” he said with a nod. 

“Good morning Mr. Hamilton,” said Laurens. He was also wearing a suit, the precise shade of navy blue as John’s, so Alexander had reason to believe they had bought both suits at once. Some part of him wondered what it would be like to go shopping for formal outfits with one’s father. He had tagged along to buy groceries with his own father when he was young, but that was hardly as significant, and besides, it hadn’t lasted long. He slipped one last folder into his briefcase and snapped it shut. 

“Bye father,” said Martha from railing at the top of the stairs, “I hope it goes well!”

“Yeah,” agreed Harry, “I hope Mister Alexander kicks their butts!”

“Henry Junior!” said Henry Senior. “That’s inappropriate!” 

“Sorry,” said Harry, “I mean good luck.”

“Thank you,” said Henry, “But it’s only a hearing today, so nothing will be decided anyways.”

“Good luck,” echoed Mary-Eleanor, making her way down the stairs. She ran up to John and gave him a hug, holding on to the back of his suit jacket so that her feet lifted off the ground. 

“Hey,” said John, trying not to smile, “Be careful, or we’ll have to iron me out!”

The little pigtailed figure made no reply, but gave her father a hug that was slightly less enthusiastic. “Good luck,” she said. She paused, her attention caught on the bottom button of Henry Laurens’ suit jacket. “Why did you leave the button open?” she inquired.

“It’s a long story,” said Henry, gathering up his briefcase and opening the door.

“The King of England did it a long, long time ago,” said Alexander, “When he got too round to fit into his suit, and then everyone copied him so he wouldn’t feel bad.”

“Is that why you and John left your buttons open too?” Mary-Eleanor asked.

“I… I suppose, yeah, it’s a tradition,” said Alexander. This answer seemed good enough for Mary-Eleanor, and she bolted back up the stairs to rejoin Martha and Harry.

“Goodbye!” John called back to them, following his father down the front steps. 

“Goodbye!” called Alexander, closing the door behind him. He took a last glance at the sprawling branches of the ancient oak trees framed against the stiff and stately columns of the house before closing the car door behind him and settling down for the drive into town. 

It was an uncomfortably quiet drive. Shrewsberry turned the radio on quietly after starting the engine but John made no effort to converse and Henry seemed content to stay silent and survey the forest flashing past the windows. Eventually he settled on the topic of grumbling about the heat, and conscripted Alexander into his complaints.

“…and the worst time of year to have to wear a suit too! We ought to have waited until fall to go to court.”

“You’re absolutely right sir.”

The Charleston County Courthouse was older-looking even than Mepkin. It towered above the street, a gleaming white façade of columns and arches flanked by two enormous palm-trees. Shrewsberry drove around to the back and parked the car while Alexander stared out the window at it. Alexander moved to open the door when another car pulled into the lot, parking right in front of the pole which supported a heavy-looking Union Jack that was level with the upstairs windows.

“Is that-” said John.

“It’s Egerton Leigh,” said Henry.

Egerton Leigh got out of his car and brought his briefcase with him. From across the pavement, Alexander estimated that he was about as tall as John, but he carried himself differently, with his shoulders thrown back and his chin held high, so he seemed to take up more space. He wore a pair of dark-rimmed glasses that made Alexander think of movie directors, and a black suit with a gold tie-pin in his red tie. He made his way over to them. 

“Good morning Henry!” he said, in a voice that had evidently never lost the English lilt it had grown up with.

“Good morning,” said Henry, offering a hand, “Good to see you!”

“And you as well, Henry, you as well!” Leigh shook his hand, shook John’s with a nod, and then turned to Alexander. “And I’m supposing you must be the lawyer from New York? Hambleton, is it?”

“Hamilton, sir,” said Alexander, shaking his hand firmly, “Pleased to meet you.”

“And you as well,” said Leigh. “Now I _would_ give you all a tour of this lovely old courthouse of ours,” he smiled fondly up at the window (or was it at the Union Jack?) “But we’ve got a hearing to attend, so that’ll have to wait until later I’m afraid.”

“That’s alright,” said Henry, clapping a hand onto Leigh’s shoulder. “No need to wait for us, we’ll be up in just a moment.”

“Fan-tastic,” said Leigh. He turned and walked into the courthouse, briefcase swinging. 

“He’s a musician,” said Henry, as if that explained everything. 

They filed into the courthouse at about the same time as much of the jury... as well as the defendants. The room was arranged with Alexander, Laurens, and Shrewsberry sharing a table at the front of the room, while the men who Alexander assumed must be the customs officer George Roupell and his supervisor, Daniel Moore, alongside a positively tiny secretary (who looked like she’d been pulled straight out of a second-year law course at _most_ to be assigned to their case), shared a table beside them. On a raised portion of the room behind them sat the jury in uncomfortable-looking chairs, separated from the front tables by a wooden railing. 

Alexander set out a notepad and pen on the table, and beside that, the colourful folders with his research and the large binder of all the evidence material they had compiled over the past year to submit for the case. Henry Laurens set out a neat pile of various relevant paperwork. Christopher Shrewsberry set out a clipboard for taking notes. Alexander turned around slightly and saw that John was sitting with the jury, a complete copy of the Trade and Navigation Acts on his lap, just in case. _Wow_ , he thought, _he’s really prepared for someone who isn’t actually involved in this case_. Alexander wondered if he ought to have brought the entire copy himself, rather than just the pertinent parts he’d brought with his research. _Oh well_ , he figured, _there’s nothing to be done about it now. If I need anything else I’ll just vault the railing and steal it from John_. He was about to inquire as to whether they ought to introduce themselves to their opposition, as awkward as that might be, when the bailiff cleared his throat loudly from the front of the room. 

“All rise for the Honourable Attorney General Egerton Leigh,” he said. There was much shuffling around the room as everyone got to their feet. Leigh made his way into the room, smiling graciously to one side, then the other, and sat down at the desk at the front of the room, flanked by not one, but two Union Jacks. “You may be seated,” said the bailiff. 

<>“Good morning,” said Leigh, “All rise for the singing of ‘God Save the King.” Everyone stood again, as Leigh led them in singing the British national anthem.

“ _…send him victorious, happy and glorious_ ,” Alexander sang, “ _Long to reign over us, God save the king_.” It was not his favourite part of the court process, given that he’d never felt that King George had done much for anyone in his colonies, but that’s not a point you bring up when becoming a lawyer, especially given that the majority of all the judges you’d ever have to deal with were British. They sat once more. 

“The court calls to order on the hearing of Mr. Henry Laurens, as plaintiff, and Mr. George Roupell, as defendant,” said Leigh. “I’d like to call on the plaintiff to present his opening statements first please.”

Alexander stood up, as did Henry Laurens beside him, and he handed the binder with the evidence to Leigh. “Ladies and Gentlemen of the court,” said Henry Laurens, “This time last year I received notice that two of my ships, both returning after delivering cargoes of rice to England, had been confiscated for not passing the specification of the Trade and Navigation Acts, without any notice to me about the cause. I asked to have them inspected again, and it was found that the ballast tank of the _Broughton Island Packet_ did not pass the specifications, but the _Wambaw_ was absolutely fine. Not only that, but we found that while they were being inspected the first time, a pipe was stepped on in the ballast tank of the _Broughton Island Packet_ , and the gas-monitoring system was broken.”

“As I’m sure you’re aware,” said Alexander, “The confiscation of a ship that does pass the specifications of the Trade and Navigation Acts is illegal, and doubly so if no cause of seizure is provided, so for that alone legal action is justified. Additionally, Mr. Laurens is owed compensation for the damage to the _Broughton Island Packet_ , and we have provided the extent of the damage with our evidence. Our aim is a combined settlement of the two, including both the cost of the repairs and the lost time to both ships that could have been spent generating a profit in the period they have been confiscated for. Thank you.” He sat back down to Henry’s approving nod on his left. 

“Thank you Mr. Laurens and Mr. Hamilton,” said Leigh. “I would now like to call on Mr. George Roupell, as defendant, to present his opening statements.”

Roupell stood, looking just a little unsure. His suit was ironed so much the creases in the elbows looked like folded paper. He had obviously dressed to the nines for this occasion, and when he spoke it was in an equally proper voice: not a syllable went un-enunciated. “Ladies and Gentlemen, this time last year I signed the orders for those two ships to be confiscated because they seemed to me to not pass the specifications of the Trade and Navigation Acts. I had been instructed to apply the Acts to their fullest, regardless of whether they were trading internationally or between the colonies,” here he gave Leigh a slight nod, “And I don’t see a fault with my application of those Acts. I didn’t give a cause of seizure because no one’s ever requested for me to give one before, they just handed the ships over, no offense Mr. Laurens.” _Doesn’t that say something about the system they’re operating in_ , thought Alexander.

“None taken,” said Henry Laurens, a little more wisely. 

“I would also like to say that I don’t believe the responsibility is mine for the damage to the _Broughton Island Packet_ , but rather the inspectors.”

“I have a feeling the inspectors themselves will have something to say about that in the fine-print,” said Leigh with a smile, “Which brings us to the presentation of evidence.” 

The presentation of evidence could only be described the same way as the room they sat in - long, cluttered, and absolutely stuffy by the time the court adjourned for the afternoon. They took their leave of the court and courtroom, and drove back with the air-conditioning on high. 

“A cause has to be given for the seizure of any vessel under section two of the Acts,” said John, to nobody in particular. “Section _two_. I know that and I’m not even a customs agent.” He hadn’t even opened the heavy book that he still carried. 

Alexander returned to his room to sort through his emails for a while after they returned home. He heard John walk up the stairs, close his bedroom door behind him, and throw the Trade and Navigation Acts book onto his desk, so the walls were evidently about as thick as you would expect from an 18th century house. Eight out of twelve unread emails later, Alexander realized that he’d finished off his water bottle in the car, and he would have to make the two-floor trek to the kitchen for a glass. He sighed, stretched his arms over his head, and set off on his quest. 

Once in the kitchen, he wasn’t sure exactly where to find the glasses. He cursed whoever had cleaned up so well - there weren’t even any in the sink. After picking through a few cupboards without success, he made his way into the pantry, just in case there were any glasses there. Upon opening the door however, he found something altogether different. 

The pantry was a square room, of which, every single wall was covered in shelving, which was in turn covered in various foodstuffs. There was a short stepladder in one corner, and a large, wooden, probably old-as-the-hills table in the middle of the room, also covered in jams and breads and cheeses in coverings of wax and such. 

Balanced on one foot, on the very edge of the table, leaning precariously out towards the shelves, stood Mary-Eleanor Laurens. 

Alexander registered all this in a split second, and then Mary-Eleanor screamed, and toppled off the table, dragging an enormous porcelain cookie-jar off the top shelf alongside her. Alexander lunged forward and caught both the kid and the jar, only crashing a little into the shelves and displacing a radish or two. There was a panicky silence as they both took an inventory of how many of their body parts (and cookies) were still intact, and then Alexander sighed in relief. 

“You really had me worried for a moment there!” he said with a nervous laugh. Mary-Eleanor said nothing, but wrapped her arms protectively around the cookie jar. “Are you alright?” Alexander asked.

“Yeah,” she said, and then shook her head mournfully and said. “I’m a gonner.”

“What makes you say that?” said Alexander. 

“’cause you’re going to tell Father I was stealing cookies, ‘cause you’re a _lawyer_!”

“Wait a moment, what does me being a lawyer have to do with this?” Alexander was trying very hard not to smile. 

Mary-Eleanor looked a little reproachful, as if he ought to know this already. “Father explained to me what a lawyer was,” she said. “He said lawyers help people decide what is good and bad and how to do the right thing.” She bit her lip, on the edge of a harsh moral reality. “Stealing cookies is not the right thing to do.”

“Well, you know, Mary-Eleanor, some things are more morally grey,” said Alexander.

“What’s that mean?”

“It means they’re not one hundred percent good, and not one hundred percent bad either. Some things are kinda in the middle.” She nodded solemnly. “I think, in this case, stealing cookies is more of a morally grey thing to do,” he explained, “You’re right that it’s against the rules, but it’s also not hurting anyone. So this time, I think I can let it slide.” He held open the lid so she could reach in and select the two smallest cookies - the least likely to be missed. 

“Would you like a cookie Mister Hamilton?” she asked. 

“That would be very nice, thank you.”

“Mister Hamilton?”

“Yeah?”

“You can call me Polly if you like. That’s what my friends call me.” She smiled proudly at this double-allotment of names. 

“Alright Polly, then you can call me Alex,” he said with the conspiratorial smile one can only share with a small child over a jar of cookies, “That’s what my friends call me.”

“Are we friends now?”

“We are if you’d like us to be. Do you want me to pick you up so you can get the jar back up on the shelf?”

“Yes please thank you.”


	6. Nightmares in Common

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So ‘hallelujah,' reads the church sign on the sidewalk,
> 
> Now I pass along the five blocks to the amber colored doors.
> 
> What's it to you? If I still believe in magic,
> 
> See the beauty in our tragic and want to feel like there's something more?”
> 
> \- [Firework](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NhbBtpvjHP0) by Canyon City  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: there is a description of Hamilton's cousin Peter Lytton's suicide at the beginning of this chapter, so if that's not a thing you want to read, you can skip to after the large paragraph break and you won't miss anything else. This is the chapter where a lot of the past angst is introduced but that's about the worst of it.

Alexander’s nightmare was uncomfortably abstract. Mostly dialogue. He could sort of sense where his legs had gotten tangled up in the blankets, and where his hair was lying across his eyes, but his mind was still reliving the most terrifying phone-call he’d ever had to make. 

“911, what’s your emergency.”

“Please, ma’am, please I really need ‘elp, it’s my cousin, there’s something wrong-”

“Okay, take a deep breath and tell me what’s wrong with him.”

“He’s… he’s not breathing, he smells funny, ma’am, he’s _not breathing_ , what do I do??”

“Can you see anything that could be choking him?”

“No… no, I don’t think so, I-”

“Alright, we’re sending an ambulance right now. Are there any adults around?”

“N-no, my brother’s at-at work, ma’am I’m so scared, I don’t know what to do.”

“Then I’m going to talk you through how to do CPR until the ambulance arrives, alright?”

“Al-alright. Okay. Okay.” 

He didn’t like remembering what a deadweight Peter had been as he rolled him over, nor how the air wheezed out of him when Alexander gave his ribs a childish shove. He didn’t like waiting outside the room while the paramedics put his cousin on a stretcher and brought him out to the ambulance. And he especially didn’t like getting back into the same suit he’d worn to his mother’s funeral to attend his cousin’s just two years later. The sleeves had been a little short, but James had said no one would notice. 

Alexander brushed the hair out of his eyes and rolled out of bed. It had been a good two months since he’d last had a dream like that, so he reasoned things were improving.

He had been ten when he and James moved in with their cousin Peter Lytton, so it was understandable how torn up he’d been when just two years later Peter was ushered off to an untimely death by an overdose of something-or-other, not altogether unpredictably. Peter had always been difficult to wake in the mornings, had always swallowed his medication with grim resignation before work, had always only been cheered by the sight of his girlfriend Tay. She was one of the most beautiful girls Alexander thought he’d ever seen, with long, swaying corn-braids and big thoughtful brown eyes behind square glasses. Alexander had never been able to fathom how his lanky red-headed cousin who always sort of smelled like smoke had managed to impress Tay, but nevertheless she came over most nights and made out with Peter on every available surface in the kitchenette while Alex and James played video games and pretended not to hear. She’d broken up with him quite kindly before she went off to grad school in America, and the day after she left he’d gotten wildly drunk. “Be careful who y’ give your ‘eart to,” Peter had told Alexander, who was eating a microwavable burrito in silence on the couch. Alexander heard his footsteps go up the stairs for the night, not knowing that they would never come down again. 

~ 

Alexander stretched his arms above his head. He needed coffee, and something to distract himself, so he slipped downstairs to the kitchen and made himself a cup. He sat on the counter and blew the steam off the top of the mug while scrolling through his friends’ recent postings. Rob was at some sort of charity bake-sale. Caty was tinkering with a drone-like contraption. It looked as if Ned had tried to take a picture of something through the lens of a microscope, but Alexander couldn’t really be sure what it was. So all was right with the world. 

“Uh, good morning!” said a voice. Alexander jumped off the counter, careful not to spill his coffee. 

“Good morning,” he said. Isaac Wilkinson, the cook, stood in the doorway with a bag of groceries in his hand, looking amused. “Can I help you with those?” Alexander asked.

“Oh, you don’t have to,” Isaac lifted the bags to the counter and began taking out groceries. 

“I don’t mind,” said Alexander, “In fact, I’m a little bored.”

Isaac laughed. “Then help yourself,” he said. 

“I have to say,” said Alexander, stacking a few containers of lettuce to the side of a shelf in the fridge, “I knew the Laurenses were an important family and all, but I didn’t know they were fancy enough to have a cook.”

“Yeah, the shipping business must be a good one to be in,” said Isaac, throwing an apple back and forth for a moment before placing it in the fruit drawer. “I mean, you know the colonies can’t trade with anyone else, so he can only ship to England, but I guess that means the market’s guaranteed.”

“Well,” said Alexander, “It’s a tiny island after all. It’s not like they can grow everything they need there.”

“Good morning Alex!” said a voice. Alexander looked out from behind the door of the fridge to see Mary-Eleanor in a pair of onesie pyjamas standing in the doorway. 

“Good morning Polly,” he said. “Are you here for breakfast?” 

“Yeah,” said Mary-Eleanor. “Are you here for breakfast too?”

“I guess I am,” said Alexander. “Can I get you anything?”

“I’m going to make pancakes,” said Isaac, “But you could get her something to drink.”

“Orange juice!” exclaimed Mary-Eleanor, and then, as an afterthought, “Please.”

“Alright, one orange juice coming up,” said Alexander. He filled a cup with orange juice and brought it to Mary-Eleanor at the breakfast table with a flourish, a towel over his arm like a waiter. She giggled. 

“Have you really pressganged him into making breakfast Isaac?” It seemed that Henry Laurens had woken up. 

“No, sir, I was just-”

“Not at all Mr. Laurens, I’m simply the waiter,” said Alexander with a grin. “Can I get you anything?”

“Oh come sit down, Isaac can get you a coffee,” said Henry, waving him over to the breakfast nook. Alexander complied, dropping his towel on the counter and picking up his cup of coffee as he sat with an apologetic look in Isaac’s direction. The rest of the family filed in as the smell of blueberry pancakes filled the room. “So I was thinking,” said Henry, “That we might go out to see one of my ships today, just to give you a feel for what the business is like. There’s one that just came in from England yesterday - it’s due to be unloaded next weekend - so I thought you might like to take a look.”

“That sounds like such a great opportunity,” said Alexander, “I’d love to go.”

“Well that’s settled then,” said Henry. Isaac set a plate of pancakes down in the middle of the table, like the bang of a gavel to Henry’s decision. “Eat up everyone!”

They set out towards Charleston after breakfast, all crammed into one car with the air conditioner blasting. Alexander, by virtue of being the guest, got to ride shotgun, a fact which Harry and Polly complained bitterly about, as if they would have gotten a chance at the front seat anyways if he hadn’t been there. Alexander could see John as a blurry shape in the side-mirror, a look of practiced patience on his face as his siblings bickered. 

The Ann was as large as any of the ships Alexander had seen during his time as a clerk at Beekman and Cruger’s trading firm, even if Henry Laurens assured him that it was actually one of the smaller ships in his enterprise. As they boarded via a gangplank, the crew was taking their personal belongings off with them after the long trip from England. The wind, smelling of sea-salt and motor-oil whipped Alexander’s hair around in a familiar dishevelment. The captain met them on the deck while Harry, Martha, and Mary-Eleanor scattered in various directions, their sneakers clanking along the metal underfoot. 

“Good to see you Mr. Laurens,” he exclaimed, with the air of a man who had just left something important to accomplish something necessary. Alexander wondered internally what task he’d given up to come meet their unexpected appearance. 

“Good to see you too Captain Lawrence,” said Henry. He gave Alexander a smile, as if he’d engineered the similarity of their names himself. “Coincidental, huh?”

“It really is,” said Alexander. “Pleased to meet you, Captain Lawrence. Thanks for taking the time for us.”

“Oh no worries,” said Lawrence, “I’d never miss a chance to show off the Ann - she’s a great ship and I’m pleased to sail her.”

“Well that’s certainly what I like to hear,” said Henry. “Kids, come back here! Captain Lawrence is going to show us around.”

They made their way down the deck, Captain Lawrence explaining the functions of various nautical equipment as John hoisted Mary-Eleanor onto his shoulders so she could better see off the side of the ship to where the waves were crashing against the hull like a dull metallic heartbeat. Lawrence’s hair was greying with age but he had no less enthusiasm than a schoolkid encountering a boat for the first time - it was clear he’d spent his life getting proficient in the knowledge of things that float, and was ready to share it with anyone else who was curious… or happened to be within earshot. They made their way belowdecks to the bunks and the galley, which were nearly empty by this point, and Harry clambered into somebody’s bed before Henry called him down. They descended another set of stairs towards a pair of large doors. “This is the good part,” said Captain Lawrence, before opening the doors onto the gargantuan hold of the ship. 

“Whoah,” said Alexander. 

“Echo!” said Mary-Eleanor from her perch on John’s shoulders. Her voice warbled around the hold, bouncing off storage containers and returning in waves to the doorway. 

“Our trade with England is mostly food,” said Lawrence, “So it’s usually kept much colder in here, but we’re just bringing back a shipment of cereals this time, so that’s why it’s such a people-friendly temperature right now.” 

“So… these are all full of cereal?” Alexander asked, his eyes climbing up the stacks of shipping containers. 

“They are indeed,” said Lawrence. “We don’t have many places that actually make cereal in the colonies, so we get a good deal of it from England, which is funny, considering they get most of their grains from farms in the colonies, so it’s actually shipped across the sea and back before we eat it in the morning. Probably why it ain’t cheap,” he mused.

“That can’t be very environmentally friendly,” said John.

“Probably not,” Henry conceded, “But it keeps us clothed and fed, so I can’t complain, can I?” Nobody replied, but John looked as if he might like to point out what was evident just looking at Henry’s dress shoes - they were a little better off than simply ‘clothed and fed.’

“So,” said Lawrence, as the kids ran off exploring away from the adults’ slow pace between the shipping containers, “I hear the lawsuit’s started. D’you mind if I ask how it’s going?”

“Well, it’s just in the hearing stage right now,” said Henry modestly, “We probably won’t begin the actual trial until later next week, and we’re off for the weekend.” He shook his head, “Just like the judicial system to start hearings on Friday just to leave us hanging for two days, isn’t it?”

“I hear you,” muttered Alexander wryly. 

“Echo! Echo!” Mary-Eleanor shouted from the other end of the room. 

They returned to Mepkin that afternoon as the breeze off the river was getting sluggishly warm, so much that Alexander’s top-floor bedroom would have been unbearable without air-conditioning. _Thank God for historical inaccuracies in the architecture_ , he thought. He spent the rest of that night researching similar legal cases. There were a few he could name off the top of his head, of course, but they had all ended in a similar outcome: victory awarded to the British customs agents. 

“That can’t be the only option,” he muttered, his face lit from underneath by the glow of his laptop like a kid telling a ghost-story. 

It was about six in the morning by the clock on Alexander’s phone, when he was awakened by an odd sound. For a moment, he thought he’d dreamed it, but then he heard it again - something like a soft and brokenhearted “no!” from one of the other rooms. He raised his head groggily, running a hand through his hair twice until it was standing on end. 

“No… Jemmy!” someone was definitely calling from another room, and they sounded so anguished it was difficult to even tell who it was. Alexander wasn’t certain what he should do, but ‘nothing’ didn’t seem like a good option, so he stumbled out of bed in his plaid pyjama pants and _King’s College Model EU Club_ t-shirt, and made his way down the hall in the too-bright early-morning sunlight. 

He was halfway down the hallway when he heard it again. Someone gasped “no!” in a voice that sounded full of tears, and he realized right then that it was _John_. 

Alexander was right outside John’s door; close enough to hear that he was crying. Now, it was Alexander’s personal opinion that John knew altogether too much about him, and was insufferably good-looking, and cold as hell, but when it came down to it, the last thing he wanted was for him to be hurt. He pushed at the door just slightly, opening a crack large enough to angle his head and look in to where John was all wound up in the sheets like some tortured Ancient Greek hero in a Romanticism painting, his hair lying like a scattered halo around his head and his still-sleeping face covered in tears.

“Jemmy! Please don’t go!” 

_He’s having a nightmare_ , Alexander realized, recognizing his own twisted posture from the night before in John’s spread-eagled limbs. _Something must’ve happened to Jemmy, whoever that is, and he’s dreaming it over._

There was nothing to be done. Fairly certain sleep wouldn’t catch up with him again, Alexander turned back to his own bedroom and tried to read over some more court cases until it was a reasonable time for breakfast, but he wasn’t in the mood to focus. Between meeting him briefly as a cow-aficionado hillbilly and then knowing him for a few days as a sophisticated old-money Southern heir, Alexander had never imagined he’d have much in common with John Laurens, let alone having similar nightmares. Perhaps, he thought with an exasperated mental sigh, they were more alike than he had thought. 

He fell back asleep again at some point, his laptop still shining ghostly blue light on his face, and the curtains still glowing with the sunrise behind them. It was after nine in the morning that someone knocked on his door twice before sticking their head in and saying, “If you want a ride to church, we’re leaving in about half an hour.”

Startled and somehow more groggy than before, Alexander blurted the customary customer service “yes, absolutely, thank you,” before he was aware what he was doing. He blinked at John in the doorway (of course it had to be John who showed up to see him in such a rumpled state), who looked equally as dishevelled. 

He knew he was going to regret it, but half-awake-Alexander didn’t exactly have the world’s best filter, so he asked “Are you alright?”

“Do I look _not_ alright?” John looked exhausted. His hair had fallen out of its customary elastic and his eyes were dark underneath.

“No, you look great - fine, I mean.” Alexander rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I’ll be down in a minute,” he said finally. John shut the door. He dropped his face into the palm of his hand and sighed heavily. 

Alexander hadn’t been to church often since high school. Mr. Knox, a family friend of the Stevenses, had brought him and Ned along most weekends at the time, probably reasoning that between his workaholic mother and alcoholic cousin, Alexander hadn’t exactly had much moral education as he was growing up. Alexander, intrigued by the air of spiffiness and self-improvement, had enjoyed it at the time, but the habit of attending church had fallen by the wayside after he moved to go to school in America. There had been too much homework and work and clubs and co-ops in various offices, and all of a sudden it was several years later and he was wedged in between Polly and Martha on an insufficiently-cushioned pew in a stifling South Carolina church, trying to remember the tunes to the songs they were singing. 

The sermon that day was about being good and law-abiding citizens, which Alexander found just slightly ironic, as someone who was getting ready to take a British customs agent to court within the next twenty-four hours. He figured there must be something more to being a good citizen than blindly following every rule set out before you, but he refrained from commenting. 

After the sermon and the catching-up with neighbours that seemed to take just as long, they headed out into the garden outside the church, where Harry and Polly spent a few quality minutes running around the bushes in circles as if they were driving racecars until Henry frowned them into behaving. Alexander couldn’t help but notice how uncomfortably John was standing while his father talked with someone he’d introduced to Alexander, who had promptly forgotten their name. John’s knuckles were white, clutching the plastic shopping bags Henry had handed him a few minutes before. 

“Alright,” said Henry commandingly, “Shall we go see her?” 

The question seemed a bit rhetorical. Whoever “she” was, Alexander got the sense that none of Henry’s children particularly wanted to see her, but they all followed their father in a sudden quiet. They walked that way for a few minutes until they came to a churchyard that was littered with well-kept gravestones, all of them the white marble that undertakers use when they must bury someone wealthy now that sarcophagi have gone out of fashion. They stopped in the middle of the yard, beside a grave that was bordered by several bouquets of flowers that had gone limp in the Southern sun, but Alexander still couldn’t see who “she” was that they were supposed to be meeting. 

Then John bent down and pulled two bouquets of flowers from the plastic bag, placing one beside the gravestone, where Alexander could now see the name _Eleanor Laurens_ inscribed in the marble. 

John picked up two of the other bouquets that had wilted completely and put them gently back into the plastic bag. He brushed a few leaves off the top of the gravestone and they fluttered into the grass. Polly reached up to hold Martha’s hand. 

Alexander wasn’t certain what to say. “I’m so sorry for your loss,” he said, barely above a whisper. He thought of his own mother’s grave. He hadn’t seen it in years. He wondered if anyone brushed the leaves off the top these days. Flowers seemed too much to hope for. 

“No need to be sorry,” said Henry, “Every family has its tragedies and we do our best to keep our chins up and be men about it,” he paused, “And ladies,” he added with a nod to Polly and Martha. Harry looked as if he might like to cry, but was biting it back in order to ‘be a man about it.’ Alexander remembered that feeling as an unpleasant one. 

“All the same,” said Alexander, “My condolences, and I understand if you would rather not talk about it-”

“Good,” said John, a little harshly for such a quiet churchyard, “Because we’d rather not.” He stood promptly and walked to the next gravestone over to lay the second bouquet of flowers. The name on the gravestone made Alexander’s eyes widen. 

_James “Jemmy” Laurens_.


	7. The Kingdom of the Dead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Run so fast through the fields in May,
> 
> And I forgot what I had to say,
> 
> I've never been through a harder day -
> 
> Than the one that left your ghost here.”
> 
> \- [Life is Good on the Open Road](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Kwce5dRtGK0) by Trampled by Turtles  
> 

“Will you play soccer with us when we get back?” Harry asked his father, leaning over so that his head stuck out between the front seats of the car. Alexander gave him an encouraging smile, but kept quiet. He thought it might be prudent to hold his tongue until they got back to Mepkin, especially since John was looking so uncomfortable in the backseat, at least in his view through the side mirror. Henry Laurens kept his eyes on the road. 

“I have work to do when we get back,” said Henry, “Maybe someone else could play soccer with you.” Harry retreated to the backseat with a frown. 

“I _told_ you so,” muttered Martha.

Henry pulled the car up the driveway and everyone dispersed to their separate haunts around the house and yard. Alexander, assuming it would be safer than working downstairs and risking ruffling any more feathers, sat head-down at his computer in the guest-room for a good hour, researching other cases similar to their own, until he heard the _clack_ of a small object against the roof outside his room. Cautiously, he looked out to one side, then the other.

“He’s not going to hear,” said a voice from the lawn.

“No look, he’s just looked out, it worked!” It was Harry and Martha, standing in the garden, and armed with a handful of small rocks and a soccer ball. 

“Hi!” called Harry.

“Hi,” Alexander replied. 

“Will you play soccer with us?” Martha asked. “Father is busy, and we can’t find John.”

“And Polly is too small!” Harry chimed in, before Martha elbowed him. 

Alexander looked back at his computer. It really wasn’t like he was making any immediate progress anyway, so he closed the screen and looked back out the window. “Sure,” he called, “Give me just a second to get down there.”

He met them in the garden a few minutes later, wearing a t-shirt and shorts that he’d ironed a bit too enthusiastically before folding them into his suitcase. “So, he said, “Two versus one?”

Harry kicked the ball back and forth between his feet for a moment. “Kids versus grown-ups?” he suggested. 

Alexander smiled. “You’re on, pipsqueak!”

Harry and Martha dashed out of the garden, passing back and forth like they could predict each other’s next moves. Alexander ran after them, cut in front of Martha, and stole the ball from her. She gritted her teeth and kicked at the ball, fighting over it for a moment before she stole it back and kicked it across the grass to Harry. 

“Wait!” Alexander yelped, “Where’s my net?!”

“The gate!” said Harry, shooting the ball at the gate. Alexander dove for the ball, missed, and hit the ground in a roll. 

“And he scoooores!” Alexander cheered good-naturedly from his position on the ground. He retrieved the ball from under a hedge and dribbled it at a run across the yard towards the gap between two trees that Martha was guarding. 

Harry intercepted him, so he pulled the ball backwards, causing Harry to chase him back across the yard and around towards the trees again. 

“Don’t worry!” yelled Martha, “I’m in net! I’ve got you!”

“No _I’ve_ got _you_!” grinned Alexander, winding up for a shot at the goal. 

Harry promptly kicked him in the shin.

“Ow!” Alexander yelled, hopping around on one leg (partially because it hurt, and partially for purposes of dramatic effect, though he would never admit to the former). “Foul play! Yellow card! Maybe even a red card!”

“I was aiming for the ball!” said Harry, trying to look innocent. 

“Nah he gets a penalty kick for that,” said Martha, “Rules are rules.”

Harry grumbled his way to the sidelines as Alexander steadied himself on two feet, and then kicked the ball as hard as he could towards the goal. Martha jumped for it and knocked it aside, and then ran for it to pass to Harry. Alexander sprinted for the gate. Harry kicked again, but this time Alexander was ready for it, and headed the ball to the ground. He dribbled it past as Harry was yelling in dismay, and made a last-ditch kick for Martha’s goal from halfway across the yard. 

The ball sailed through the air, almost in slow motion, and flew under Martha’s outstretched arm, landing squarely between the trees. “Goal!” she called. Alexander, however, did not get to see this, as Harry had tackled him like a rugby player, and he was busy trying to shake him off. 

From the upstairs window of his office, Henry Laurens looked out and smiled. 

Back in his room after dinner, Alexander inspected his shins. They were indeed starting to bruise. He rolled his eyes and pulled on his pyjama pants and shirt before pacing down the hall to brush his teeth. He’d finished up and was returning to his room, when someone whispered “hey!” very softly from the room beside the staircase. He turned. Mary-Eleanor was sitting on the edge of her bed in a pair of onesie pyjamas, looking out into the hallway through the open door. “Hey, c’mere,” she whispered.

Alexander obliged. “Aren’t you supposed to be sleeping?” he asked. 

Mary-Eleanor shrugged. “I said goodnight to Father, but he didn’t come upstairs to tuck me in,” she explained. “And when he doesn’t tuck me in, Jacky does, but I think he’s reading.”

“Hold on,” said Alexander, “Who’s Jacky again?”

Mary-Eleanor pointed wordlessly to John’s room. Alexander nodded. “Can you read me a story?” she asked, sliding off the side of her bed and climbing up into the armchair on the other side of her room. 

“I don’t see why not,” said Alexander, “Which one do you want me to read to you?” he squinted at the bookshelf, a cluttered rainbow of picture-books and age-appropriate chapter-books.

Polly inspected the bookshelf solemnly. “This one,” she said. “Can you read me the one about the cycle-ops?”

Alexander pulled the heavy volume from the shelf, and found that it was a collection of Greek myths, complete with pictures of ships with bright sails cutting through blue waters and smirking dryads peeking out from behind trees. “Do you mean the cyclops?” he asked, just to be sure.

“Yeah!” said Polly, pushing him backwards into the armchair. She climbed up to sit on his knee and opened the book in his hands. Alexander, taken a bit aback by this enthusiastic show of confidence in him, took a moment before finding the page with the story about Odysseus and the Cyclops and beginning to read. 

Polly listened quietly, leaning back so her head rested against Alexander’s arm. 

“…and then Odysseus and his men ate the cheese,” he read, “Offering some to the gods and accepting the rest as a guest-gift-”

“But did they ask first?” asked Polly. 

“Sorry?”

“Did they ask if they could eat the cheese?”

“No, they didn’t.”

“That’s kinda rude,” said Polly with a frown. “Ok, you can keep reading.”

“At that moment, the gigantic cyclops, Polyphemus, arrived to his cave-”

“How do you say that?”

“Po-ly-phe-mus?”

“Po-ly-phe-mus. Like Polly! Ok, keep reading.”

Alexander smiled. It wouldn’t be long, he figured, until little John Mulligan was old enough to be this inquisitive, so he’d have to get good at answering rapid-fire children’s-questions. He continued on, telling the (somewhat censored) tale of Odysseus’ narrow escape after blinding the cyclops. Mary-Eleanor shivered a bit at the gristly thought of a hot poker poking the cyclops’ giant eye. 

“Do you want me to keep reading?” Alexander asked, just in case. 

“Yeah,” said Polly, “I’m brave enough.”

“’Who could have done such a thing to me?’ shouted the Cyclops in a painful rage, ‘And what is his name?!’” Alexander roared in his best Polyphemus voice. “’My name is Nobody,’ said clever Odysseus.”

“Pfft, _Nobody_ ,” laughed Polly. 

“’Nobody has poked me in the eye!’ roared the Cyclops,” Polly burst into laughter, kicking her feet back and forth and into the bruise on Alexander’s shin. “Ow!” he yelped, but she just assumed it was another cyclops impression, and laughed harder.

He finished the story, but she asked if he could continue, and her eyes were just so big and pleading he couldn’t find an excuse not to. The next story in the book was about Circe, and Odysseus’ journey to the Kingdom of the Dead. He had just gotten to the part where Odysseus meets the spirit of his mother, when Polly put a hand on his arm. 

“Do you want me to stop reading?” he asked softly. 

“Maybe for just a minute,” she agreed. The crickets were chirping outside in the garden. “It’s not real, is it,” she said quietly. 

“What’s not real?”

“Going to the Kingdom of the Dead,” said Polly. 

“Well,” said Alexander, “Lots of different people believe a lot of different things about what happen after you die-”

“I know,” she said, “But you can’t really _visit_ there.”

“No,” said Alexander. “No, you can’t really.”

“I kinda… I kinda wish you could,” she said. “Is that bad?”

“No, that’s not bad at all,” said Alexander. “Almost everyone has someone they wish they could visit in the Kingdom of the Dead, and it’s perfectly normal to wish that.”

“I don’t know if I should talk about it,” she said, even quieter. 

“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” said Alexander. 

“No, I want to,” said Polly, “But nobody else wants to. So I don’t think I should.”

Alexander felt something very large, and very bitter swell up in his chest, but it was difficult to tell what it was. Perhaps empathy, or a sense of having felt the same way a long time ago. 

“You know I have someone I’d like to visit in the Kingdom of the Dead too,” he said. 

“Really?”

“Yeah. My mum passed away when I was little, and my cousin too.”

“And you miss them?”

“I really do,” he said.

“And does it hurt when you miss them? Like you sort of want to cry but sort of not?”

“It does sometimes.”

Mary-Eleanor’s eyes widened. “Me too!” she said. “I miss Mama and I miss Jemmy and nobody wants to talk about them, and I don’t want to make anyone sad, so I don’t talk about them, but I sometimes sort of want to cry and sort of not! Just like you!”

“Polly?”

“Yeah?”

“You know it’s ok to talk about them, right?” she considered this. “Because it’s better to talk than to hold everything you want to say inside you and not let it out.”

“Do you think Father and Jacky know that?” she asked.

“I’m not sure,” said Alexander honestly. “I haven’t been here very long, remember?” she smiled. “But I think they are probably hurting just like you, only they’re afraid to let it out.”

She picked at the fabric of her pyjamas for a minute. It was covered in a pattern of dinosaurs, and it occurred to Alexander that perhaps it was a hand-me-down from Harry or Jemmy. Then suddenly she squirmed around, gave Alexander a hug, and said “Ok you can keep reading now.”

He finished the story and she climbed carefully out of the armchair and into bed. She pulled up the covers and then pulled them down again to turn out the light. Alexander pulled the covers over her head and she giggled. 

“Goodnight Alexander!”

“Goodnight Polly.”

He closed the door behind him, turned around, and found himself face-to-face with John. 

“Hey,” he whispered. 

“Hey,” John replied.

“Look, I’m sorry if I-”

“It’s ok,” said John, surprisingly non-hostile. He nodded towards Polly’s door, neither encouraging, nor discouraging. “She really trusts you.”

“Well… I… thanks,” said Alexander. “How long were you out here for?”

“About since the Polyphemus impression,” John admitted.

“Oh,” said Alexander, “Then you heard-”

“Like I said,” said John, “I don’t want to talk about it. But I’m glad she has someone to talk to.” He nodded goodnight and returned to his bedroom, leaving Alexander to stare at the hall table for several moments trying to make sense of… everything. The crickets were still chirping in the wisteria outside. 


End file.
